Learning to Play
by HandwrittenStories
Summary: Belarus forgot Russia, but healing is never so simple. I do not own Hetalia!


"Try it again." Austria said.

Belarus began pressing on the piano keys, striving to copy Austria. The sound was like a mouse scampering inside the instrument, lacking tempo and melody. Her fingers pressed the keys wrong, adding to much force on some and not enough bon others. She growled slamming a fist on the body of the instrument. It was impossible!

She glared at the polished wood of the instrument, trying to take deep even breaths to steady herself.

"How long have we been here?" She asked.

Austria sighed looking at the clock on the wall. "Three hours, take a break."

It had been six months.

Belarus finally gave up on Russia and came to stay with Austria. It had been a strange and unexpected arrangement that was only supposed to last for a few days. But neither had been particularly eager to return to their original arrangement.

One day Belarus had happened across Austria playing the piano. She'd stopped and listened, absorbing every note until the final chord hung in the air. The music was so beautiful; stirring feelings that had long lay dormant in her heart. It was amazing how something so simple could bring forth so many feelings inside her.

"I know you're there," Austria had said. "Come in and sit down."

Stunned, Belarus had entered and taken a seat beside him on the bench.

The songs he began playing were just as stirring as the first, creating a lovely chaos of her emotions. His fingers moved gracefully over the ebony and ivory keys, creating spellbinding melodies that captured her and held her fast. The music was transcendental, flowing together into a symphony that spoke to every part of her. Each note was harmonious with the others, joining together to create a perfect sound.

He'd finished then, resting his hands on the polished wood. She studied every detail of his hands; the long elegant fingers and delicate nails, toughened skin worn to callous from centuries of playing piano. The perfect artist's hands. Nervously she had looked at her own hands. For the most part they were smoothed and unblemished; except for the crook of her thumb. The knives she constantly carried had worn the small expanse of skin until it was toughened like leather. She didn't carry the blades anymore, having left them behind the same time she had forgotten about Russia. For some reason she left the music room then, her cheeks burning with shame.

But the melody had haunted Belarus. It possessed every waking thought she had and infected her memories. It wormed its way into her very core until she could hear it in the rustle of dress fabric or the chirping of the birds. It appeared in her sleep, providing the soundtrack to her dreams and the chorus of her heartbeat. It drove her insane; hearing it in her every thought and sound until finally she would be driven to her bed where she would gaze at her palm, running a finger over the calloused skin on her palm. It would always be there as a constant reminder of the weapons she used to try and destroy the barriers between her and Russia. Had it been a physical barricade or a person she had been willing to cut them down.

But what had that given her in the end?

"Could you teach me how to play the piano?" she finally asked Austria.

"You want to learn?" he seemed surprised that Belarus would show any interest in music.

She nodded. "I don't want to destroy things anymore," her hand ran over the dark mahogany idly. "Could you find the time to show me how in the future?"

A hand clasped around her wrist and the bench was suddenly beneath her. "We'll begin right now."

She hadn't expected it to be so difficult. After nearly five months she couldn't play a proper scale. Before she would have broken the piano, shattered it into a million pieces with her knives. Now Belarus just sat in the aimlessly guest room after practicing, gazing at her palm. Sometimes she would stay that way until the first colors of dawn painted the sky. But lately she had been spending her nights working on her sketch. She added color to the grass and ocean, blending blues and greens into soft reality on the page.

Nobody could tell until but it was a portrait of the last second she had loved Russia. That moment, when he stood with his back to her overlooking the sea. In that instant when a wave receded from the shore so did all her affection for him. Suddenly the things she had done for such a long time in her life became pointless, the man in front of her was just that, a man.

She had left that night.

Now she delicately drew a pencil over the lines she had made weeks before. Carefully she created the gentle slope of the shore, the creases of her brother's uniform. Within a few days she hoped to complete it; originally she had planned to have learned how to play the piano by the time the basic line work had been finished, but now that dream was gone. She wondered how much longer Austria would allow her to remain here; it had been six months already, he wouldn't put up with her that much longer.

Even aristocrats had schedules to keep.

"Like this," Austria said showing her how to play a basic scale.

Belarus's fingers fumbled on the keys and even the simple notes become a jumbled mess.

"This is impossible," she said with a watery voice.

Tears stung her eyes making them burn. She felt her chest tighten and the repressed sob made her body quiver. Why was it all so difficult?

"You're getting it," Austria placed a hand on her shoulder. "It will just take some time that's all."

She rubbed at her tears, trying to regain composure. "Let's just end the lesson for today alright?"

That evening Belarus finished the sketch. Instead of pride and happiness she only felt anger and a sense of loss. Before she would have simply sliced the paper into ribbons and carried on. But now she sat on the bed and cried.

"Belarus?" Austria knocked on the door.

"Yes?" she sniffled trying to hide her tears.

He opened the door, "What's wrong?" he took a seat beside her.

"It's nothing."

She turned away from him, ashamed at her weakness. Who was she to cry over something a silly as a drawing? It was only a piece of paper, what significance did it hold?

"What's this?" he gently picked up the sketch from the nightstand.

"Just a picture." It wasn't remarkable, just a silly little portrait.

"This is Russia isn't it?"

Belarus sat completely still, unable to answer him. How could it be so taxing to simply admit who it was? There was nothing romantic about that moment, quite the opposite. There was nothing left for her to feel towards her brother.

"It's a lovely portrait." Austria offered.

"Well, I'm not trying to learn how to sketch am I?" Her voice was bitter, filled with contempt for that useless scrap of paper and her useless hands.

"No, you aren't." He sounded thoughtful as he scrutinized her artwork. "I'll see you tomorrow in the studio yes?" he asked returning the canvas to its resting place.

She nodded wiping the last of her tears away.

The afternoon sun brightened the room and glistened off the piano. But beside it sat a new addition to the room, an easel and pad of paper sitting beside a stand covered in drawing materials.

"What's this?" She asked Austria.

"I thought your time would be better spent on something other than mastering an instrument." He answered.

"But," she took a deep breath to organize her thoughts. "I want to create, like you."

"Belarus, look at me," He reached out to touch her shoulder. "You do create. That portrait was beautiful; it's unlike anything I've ever seen."

"But-"

"Just try it, you're so gifted." He steered her towards the easel and stool. "Please, draw something."

In that moment all the apprehension she felt dissolved into sand, blowing away in an instant the way her love for Russia had. It became clear to her that creation wasn't a single thing; it could manifest itself in anything that produced. Music and art, they could be the same thing for her; she didn't have to perfect a specific skill, as long as she created _something_.

She picked up a pencil and began sketching.

Now she spends all her time in Austria's studio. He plays the piano while she paints or draws, both of them creating side by side. His fingers move elegantly over the polished leys and fill the room with perfect melodies. A pencil glides over the canvas in her hand as it brings images to life. They sit completely absorbed in their activities and yet still share a world with the other.

They don't mention those first six months, when she struggled between destruction and creation. That confusing time when she still didn't understand who she was or what she wanted doesn't exist in their reality. Instead they spend their time talking about art, of all the other countries that have lived in his household and the many events of history he's witnessed. And Russia. It doesn't hurt her anymore to hear about his successes or failures. Where there used to be a childlike devotion to him there is a new sort of love. A love of art and painting, creating.

And for Austria too.


End file.
